Weighted
by Non Sequitur Metus
Summary: Pre-movie Fic. Six was not designed with that awkward key around his neck... Two-shot


((Hello! Non Sequitur Metus here. I hope you all give my first fanfic a look and possibly -gasp- reviews. Keep an eye open for a part two.))

It was quiet in the confines of the bunker, which had long since been abandoned by humans. A few rays of light filtered in through cracks in the door, but otherwise the only light was emitted by the candle that sat in its holder. It had been two months, and the one-sided war was still raging. One had found this shelter, and now they all were taking a valued day of respite.

One was resting, sitting down, while Eight stood defensively next to him. Two was currently mending some minor rips on Five's arm and explaining how to perform the process properly. Seven was sitting and sharpening her new found blade, casting a wary eye over to Three and Four, who were documenting everything they could find.

Six was sitting as far away from the candle as possible, kneeling in the darkness on the dirt floor. He was shaky after recently running for his life, but was generally relaxed now. He was scrawling shapes in the dirt, gently carving out little divots that formed pictures. He longed for the ink and paper that the scientist had once provided for him before he was forced to go away. His mismatched lenses were unfocused as his hands automatically scrawled out a scene of the war, as if by putting it into reality and out of his head, he could unsee the terrors of the carnage.

As soon as he was done, he viewed his work with a shudder, erased it away with a brush of his hand, and sat up to see the kindly face of Five only a few inches away. Six was happy to see that, as usual, Two's handiwork was flawless, and left hardly a single indicator of Five's wound. His mind wandered a bit, straying from one topic to another, to images he knew to images he didn't. Some things were oddly familiar, but others were totally mysterious, like dusty clouds passing by that held no shape. A firm hand on his shoulder brought him out of his daze.

"Six, are you okay?" Five repeated for the third time, as he looked at him with concern. He knew that the little artist had been getting more distant by the day, but he had not realized how deeply Six could space out. There was no answer from him, so Five asked again. "Are you alright? I almost thought you'd slipped into a rest cycle for a moment." The striped stitchpunk opened and closed his mouth, unable to form his thoughts into words. Instead, he gave Five his warmest smile, and went back to etching images into the dust below him.

Five, satisfied and comforted by Six's return to reality, let him be, and headed back to spend some time with Two. He briefly had a conversation with Three and Four before they nodded profusely and ran off.

By the time night fell, One had made sure the candle was extinguished so as not to attract any unwanted attention to their shelter, and almost everyone had lapsed into rest.

Almost everyone. The twins were curled up impossibly close to each other, Seven was sleeping nearby, Two and One each occupied their own beds, and Eight had dozed off still sitting and leaning on his enormous sword. Five was cozied up in a match box on a shelf were he had finally given up searching for treasures through the debris. Six had rolled up into a tight ball, trying his best to get some rest, but his thoughts were drifting again, in and out of focus like a bad camera. He was unsure when his thoughts had crossed from his conscious to dreams; both were vague and oddly formed. Even though his daydreaming often lead him down strange paths, his dream lead him down one that he was far too familiar with.

Terrible things were happening. The noise of screaming, dying, the scraping of metal, bullets, and fire all melded together into one large siren, and everything was dark, dark, dark…

"Six! Get up! Wake up!" Seven's voice snapped him into consciousness, and he sat bolt upright, shaking like a leaf, his optics wide open. Seven, Two, and Five stood bundled around him, looking rather disturbed in the morning sunlight. Even the timid Three and Four stood nearby, casting their worried glances towards Six. He could not see One or Eight, but he was sure they were somewhere within shouting distance. Six looked around with confusion.

"Wh-Why is everyone staring at me like that?" He paused, worrying a bit. "Is everyone alright?"

Two knelt down, drawing him into a tight embrace. "I do believe that is our question for you. It would seem you had quite the bad dream."

"You were _screaming…_" Added Five quite nervously. "Really loud."

The elderly doll gave him a few pats on the back until he stopped quivering, and then moved to release Six. He clung to Two's arms a bit, but quietly let go, allowing himself to smile in assurance that he was all right, even if he felt quite shaken. He stood up and bushed himself off, removing most of the dirt from his fabric, and stretched out his joints. He was surprised that while Two and Seven had gone their separate ways, Three, Four, and Five continued to stand by him, now bearing huge grins.

"Come on," Five offered, grabbing Six by the hand, and giving him a tug. "We have something for you." He gave chase to the twins, who had scurried to a small area behind a shelf, dragging a disoriented Six along with him. "We started looking last night, but we had to stop when One put the candle out." It was pitch black, but there was a sudden hissing noise, followed by a lit match passing on its flame to a candle. Immediately, the alcove was illuminated to reveal stacks of paper that was either blank, or faded enough that it might as well have been, tacks, small cups of water, and inks. To Six's utter joy, there was not just black ink. There was _color._ Tiny vials of reds, blues, greens, and yellows were sprinkled among at least ten or more large vial of black.

Six couldn't help but to give a high-pitched squeal as he whipped around and gave his three brethren a surprisingly strong hug, all dregs of his nightmare long forgotten. He could only squeak out, "Thank you so much," before he let them go and flung himself to the floor. The first thing he did was rinse his hands off in the water, removing any dirt left. Then, in an automatic, practiced motion, the cap on the first of the black inks came off. In a flash, he was cheerily humming, and completely engrossed in his work.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last.

Good things never did.


End file.
